


Five Times Draco Walked Away, and the One Time He Didn't

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Professors, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the first Christmas after the war, and Draco and Harry are freshly minted professors at Hogwarts, and alone there for the holidays. Luckily Harry is persistent, since Draco keeps insisting on walking away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Draco Walked Away, and the One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as a holiday gift for lijah_lover. Happy Holidays, hon!
> 
> It is also my first Five Times fic, and I hope it works. The prose MIGHT have gotten a bit purple towards the end there. I blame Draco.
> 
> As always, JK Rowling owns the characters and world of Harry Potter; I just like to write here.

1.

“Potter.” Draco looks up when the shadow falls over his table. He arches one eyebrow and waits, sighing when nothing is said. “Tell me, is there a reason why you are looming over me and disturbing my meal?”

“Aside from McGo—Minerva, you and I are the only ones left in Hogwarts,” Potter points out.

“There are house elves.” Draco returns to his soup, sipping daintily from the raised spoon. “If you’re going to be this irritating for the entirety of the holiday break, I may well rethink my decision to stay. Are you always this needy?”

Potter drops into the chair next to Draco. They are both sitting at the head table, and McGonagall is conspicuously absent. The seat Potter takes is normally reserved for Herbology; the headmistress has seen fit to separate her new professors of Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions, and Draco has appreciated it. Until now, when no one else is present to act as a buffer between them.

“I’m not needy.” Potter has a simple sandwich rather than soup, but then, Draco suspects that the tastes of one raised in the Muggle world are rather pedestrian. “I’m bored. And if you’d bother to admit it, I suspect you’re bored as well. Why didn’t you go home for the holiday?”

Draco’s lips purse thinly. “If you must know, Mother is spending it with Father in Azkaban, and I’ve no desire to go near that place.”

“What about your mates?”

“What about yours?” Draco counters. “Or did I hear that Granger and the Weasel are off on a pre-honeymoon in Australia?”

“They’re bringing her family home,” Potter says, shrugging one shoulder that Draco thinks still looks too thin. They both are too thin after the year of the war, and although the elves of Hogwarts seem determined to feed them well, it is taking time for either to regain the weight they have lost.

Not that he’s looking at Potter’s shoulder. Or body at all.

They eat in silence for a long moment, or relatively so since Potter can’t seem to chew quietly. No matter how hard he tries to ignore him, Draco is _aware_ of Potter’s presence, right there on his left, well within reach.

He glares at the other man. “Thank you ever so much for disturbing my meal,” Draco snaps as he rises. “I’ll take my pudding in my rooms.”

“As Master Malfoy wishes.” A house elf bows, disapparating with a crack.

Draco can’t help but notice that another elf places a treacle tart on Potter’s plate, but Potter ignores it. Draco can feel the heat of his gaze as he sweeps from the great hall, and he refuses to give Potter the satisfaction of looking back.

 

2.

The entirety of the holiday break is sixteen days. In years past it would have been five days shorter, but it is so soon after the war that the school felt it was more important for children to return home to their families earlier than to have a longer study period, and thus the train left immediately after classes ended on Friday the 18th.

By Monday the 21st, Draco decides that perhaps he _should_ go somewhere. Anywhere. Simply to escape Hogwarts and the house elves and Minerva McGonagall (who insists on ensuring that he is comfortable and happy there). Not to mention leaving Potter behind.

“I was thinking—”

“No,” Draco snaps, not looking up from the book he is reading in the comfort of the Slytherin common room. “I shan’t even comment on how odd it is for you to bother to seek me out in the Dungeons; you must be dreadfully bored. But I am uninterested in playing chess, nor listening to the wireless, nor a round of Exploding Snap. To be perfectly honest, I’ve always loathed that game. Goyle and Crabbe played it incessantly.”

It is entirely the wrong thing to say. He mentions their names and his mind and memories fill with smoke. He coughs from the acrid odor of it, turning his head and refusing to see the pity in Potter’s eyes.

“I was actually thinking Quidditch.” Potter stares at something over the Slytherin fireplace. His hands are in his pockets, his body loose as he rocks on his heels. “I need to get out of here, and thought you might want to fly, too. It’s better than being stuck down here, under the lake, surrounded by walls.”

“It’s also bloody well colder than a hag’s tit out there, Potter.” Draco returns to his book, not thinking about brooms or Quidditch gear or the rush of getting his hand on the snitch just before Potter does. “Do you want to freeze your bollocks off?”

“It’s not that cold, which you’d know if you’d bother to come out.” Potter grins then, a slow lazy smile that lights his green eyes.

Those eyes are deadly, but Draco’s always known that, ever since he was old enough to pay attention. And by then, it was already too late. It has always been too late, where Potter is concerned.

He sneers and looks away, before he is caught staring. “I don’t need to prove anything against you, Potter.”

“Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco looks up again, his jaw tight. Potter is there, waiting, and the smile shifts knowingly. As Potter turns on his heel, he doesn’t look back, as if he knows Draco will be right behind him.

He’s right, of course; Draco can’t let the challenge lie.

Potter wins for the day, catching the snitch three times out of five. But the last time it is a close match, and they go down in a jumble of limbs, trying to untangle themselves and fight for the quivering snitch at the same time.

It ends with Draco straddling Potter and the snitch in Potter’s hand, held over his head. But Potter is staring at Draco, and his hand opens; the snitch zips away, free.

 _Now_ Draco is scared.

He pushes back, standing quickly, lips twisting into a scowl. He hears Potter call his name when he twists away and starts walking, but he doesn’t look back.

 

3.

“It’s Christmas Eve. You can’t seriously be planning to eat in your rooms.”

Draco smiles thinly. He shouldn’t have opened the door. He knows that by now it is only Potter and himself in the castle other than the elves—McGonagall has gone somewhere, he doesn’t care where, for Christmas—and the elves wouldn’t knock. Yet for some reason he opened it, and there stands Potter, leaning against the frame, his hair tousled and his shirt untucked.

Draco grits his teeth and sets aside his book. “I can’t think that it is any of your business how I choose to spend my holiday, Potter.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve an entire week still here together. The least we could do is try to get along.” Potter shrugs. “Although I suppose if you want to continue to prove that you’re the same prat I’ve known for years, you might as well go on as you are. But I thought we’d got past all that shite. The war’s done, Malfoy. _Draco_. We’re both professors, and there are students who look up to us.”

“There are also students who have known us almost as long as we’ve known each other,” Draco points out dryly. “Like your Weasel girlfriend, or the Lovegood girl.”

It is a shot in the dark, a reminder that they come from entirely different social structures. Potter associates with the gingers and the madwomen, and Draco remains alone, estranged from the purebloods.

Potter’s lips thin, pressed together, and he makes a wry face. “She’s not my girlfriend, you know. Neither of them. Things changed during the war; we all changed.” He looks at Draco. “I can’t think a single one of us is the same person we were two years ago, can you? Except maybe Ron and Hermione. They’re the same, just more adult. The war helped them.”

“It didn’t help anyone else.” Draco’s tone is flat.

“Exactly.” Potter turns in the doorway, making room as he gestures for Draco to follow him. “So, we’re not the same, not either of us. You’re not trying to kill me, and I’m not trying to kill you, which ought to be something good, right? So let’s just sit down and have dinner together for Christmas Eve and tomorrow you can go back to ignoring me.”

The problem is, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

Draco’s never had the chance to see Potter as human. He was the enemy. He was a hero. He was the boy Lucius thought that Draco ought to be, and yet at the same time, the boy he could never be. He was always larger than life and something other than merely another person who lived this same life as Draco did.

But here they stand now, both eighteen and feeling far older, pretending to be adults among those they consider peers. If Draco were to look, he could see the faint lines of stress in Potter’s stance, the way he carries himself when he thinks no one else was paying attention. He could see the similarities between their lives.

Those thoughts are dangerous, leading places that are impossible.

Draco stands, pointing into the hallway. “I said no.” He keeps his voice low, even, not betraying his thoughts. “If you wouldn’t mind, Potter, I wish to be alone.”

Potter stays right there as Draco approaches, one hand on the door frame. “I think you’re lying, Draco,” he says quietly. “I think you’re just scared.”

“Of you?” Draco snorts. “Hardly. And we are _not_ on familiar terms, so do not presume to address me by my given name. Now go.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Potter moves his hand; he simply closes the door.

But he listens after, waiting for footsteps that he doesn’t hear. No crack of disapparition, no steps, nothing.

Silence.

He wonders if Potter is waiting there to see if he will relent and open the door again.

Draco cannot do that. He cannot give in. He sits back in his chair, and he picks up his book, but the words are blurred and he stares at them for hours, seeing nothing, until the clock chimes Christmas at midnight, and he finally goes to sleep.

 

4.

It isn’t that he wishes company on Christmas morning. Rather, the house elf he summons to bring him toast informs him, rather curtly, that breakfast will be served in the Great Hall, and any packages delivered there. Thus, Draco dresses for the day and makes his way into the brightness of the hall.

Potter sits at the head table already, of course, in the seat next to Draco’s. He could choose a different seat, but that would be an admission that Potter has gotten beneath his skin. Besides, the food is right there and waiting, with Draco’s plate, and a small pile of boxes.

It seems he is not forgotten after all.

He stands while he sifts through the boxes, a similar pile lying to the other side of Potter’s plate. There is one from his mother, and another from Pansy. A small one from Zabini, along with one from Nott, both interestingly sent from the same address in Rome. A large one from Goyle rounds out the pile.

Draco’s fingers linger against the paper of the packaging. They are not brightly wrapped. Rather, they are cast in brown paper, utilitarian packaging meant for owl trips. He doesn’t care. They are gifts, and he is not alone. He reminds himself that he must send Hogwarts’ owls out after breakfast, bearing packages of his own to the far corners to find his friends and family. They have been purchased and neatly wrapped, but he hesitated to send them, as if he wondered whether it would be a futile gesture.

It is nice to know that his life is not futile.

“Sit and eat already.” Potter nudges Draco’s chair out with a toe. “Or we could open gifts first. Molly always made us eat before anything else, though. Said we needed the energy.”

Draco can see one package for Harry that _is_ bright. There are claw marks marring the paper, as if the owl had nearly dropped it, several times. The paper that wraps it is a chaotic mix of purples, greens, yellows and reds, and the package itself is lumpy. But the return address is clear: The Burrows.

That one package, messy as it is, seems to carry more emotion than any of the neat, drab packages on Draco’s side. He refuses to allow himself to resent a gift from a Weasley.

Instead he simply picks up his fork and eats. Rather than simple toast and marmalade, the house elves have served up a feast, and Draco partakes until his stomach is full. Potter seems to match him bite for bite, both eating with far more appetite than Draco can remember either of them displaying recently.

When they are sated, Draco motions to Potter and without discussion they alternate opening their gifts. The gaudily wrapped package is a terrifyingly large jumper for Potter, with an H at the center of the chest. Potter seems delighted by the gift, yanking it over his head and letting his too-thin body swim in it as he shoves the sleeves up to bare his hands and wrists.

The gifts are simple, and mostly what one might expect. Draco receives a book from his parents, and Potter receives one from from the Weasel and Granger. They look at each other’s gifts, and Potter holds up his— _Quidditch Peculiarities Down Under_ —and offers that Draco might read it when he’s done. Draco politely offers the same, but it appears that Potter has little interest in the history and Sumerian roots of Potions artistry. This is little surprise to Draco, yet the wrinkled nose expression Potter pulls makes him laugh anyway.

From Zabini, Draco receives an old copper _something_ that he does not recognize, with no note. Potter laughs and shrugs, and Draco breaks the pattern to open Nott’s gift immediately after. It contains a letter, and an announcement of engagement that comes as a complete surprise. Draco shakes his head. “In the midst of a war,” he murmurs. “They somehow found the time.”

“What is it?” Potter leans into Draco’s space, and Draco swallows a hiss of irritation. Like this, he can smell cinnamon from somewhere on Potter’s skin, can feel the brush of that chaotic hair against his cheek. “Huh. Zabini and Nott are getting married? Is that even legal? I didn’t know they were bent.”

“Zabini’s bisexual,” Draco says idly. “Pansy wanted to marry him, and once I thought he was going to do so, but apparently not.” He laughs slightly. “Or Nott, rather. I—I can’t even imagine how they found the time to fall in love.”

Because that is what Nott says it is. Love, found amongst the ashes and ruins left of the Pureblood world, or perhaps during the flame and fire of the war itself. Draco’s lips purse as he thinks of it, and how much he has missed or set aside in his young life. His friends are healing, while he lingers on, like some terminal patient simply waiting for the end.

“Draco.”

Potter’s voice is low, rough. Draco turns to look at him, one eyebrow arched, intending to remind Potter once more that they are _not_ on familiar terms, but Potter is so close that it stops the words from escaping.

“Mistletoe.” Potter points up, and Draco’s gaze automatically follows the path of that finger as Potter continues speaking. “Guaranteed Nargle free.”

“Narg—?” Draco _tries_ to ask what a Nargle is, but he is silenced by Potter’s mouth closing over his. Soft. Cautious. Restrained before it presses closer, a tongue sliding against his lips until Draco gives a startled gasp and pulls away.

His heart is hammering, a swift rush of blood suffusing his cheeks. “What the bloody hell are you on about, Potter?”

“Mistletoe.” Potter repeats, voice light. Draco could hardly have missed the stalk of it above them. But there is something in Potter’s gaze that Draco doesn’t understand. Confusion. Possibly hurt.

No matter. This did not happen, nor can it happen again. He smiles thinly as he stands. He orders the house elves to bring the gifts to his room, and bows slightly. “Happy Christmas, Potter. I’m quite certain you can find better to do with your day.”

He does not want to become some _experiment_. Some way for Potter to pass the time. Draco refuses to open up his heart and let Potter hurt him. For all that Potter claims not to be trying to kill him anymore, Draco might argue. Love is far more deadly than war, after all.

 

5.

Draco takes to the sky when he cannot sleep.

The air is cold, far colder than when he flew against Potter the other day. He could cast a warming charm, but that would make it less punishing. Right now he wants to _feel_ the brutality of the air. He wants to fly hard enough that the wind hurts, turning his skin red and raw as he twists and turns in the air.

When he drops, he cannot feel his feet as anything other than _things_ that exist at the ends of his legs. He stumbles from his broom, catching himself on his hands when he falls to the ground.

“What the hell are you trying to prove to yourself?”

Potter is there, hands under Draco’s arms, helping him stand. Steadying him. Warmth in the cold, a strong heartbeat that pierces through the chill that has wrapped itself around Draco.

He opens his mouth to reply, but his teeth chatter instead. He is shivering, and he cannot stop.

“Idiot,” Potter says softly. He wraps his arms around Draco, pulling him closer. Draco would stop him, but he is incapable of speech or movement. All he can do is stand there, swaying in the chill night, listening as Potter murmurs nonsense. Or perhaps they are words and Draco cannot hear them past the sound of his own teeth clacking. It is impossible to tell.

Draco feels something nudge against him, behind his legs, and he is hauled backwards. Somehow Potter wrestles them both onto Draco’s broom, with Draco cradled across Potter’s lap. It is awkward and uncomfortable (and terrifying) but it is at least warm. Potter lets the broom lift and they race across the grounds. The heavy doors to Hogwarts open and Potter flies through, taking them right into the main hall before he stops, hovering.

The air is painfully warm against Draco’s iced skin, and the shivering begins again.

“You’re even more of an idiot than I thought,” Potter mutters. “Try not to hex me before I get you back on your feet, all right?” He hasn’t set either of them down off the broom, and now he flies through the halls and up the stairs, zooming around like Draco always wanted to as a boy.

If he could talk, he might laugh. It almost seems childish, if it weren’t for the tense set of Potter’s shoulders as if he is a man with a mission.

Draco wonders what that mission might be. This isn’t life or death, after all. He is merely cold.

“What were you thinking, going outside in your pyjamas?” Potter doesn’t wait for an answer as he kicks open the door to a room in Gryffindor tower. He lowers Draco to the bed, and for a moment Draco thinks to protest, but then there are blankets over him and a warming charm and suddenly he doesn’t want to move at all. “Take off your clothes,” Potter says.

Draco blinks. “You’re mad,” he replies.

“It’s what I read once, in a book. If a bloke’s freezing, you ought to warm him with your body heat.”

“I’m warm enough here.” Draco doesn’t want Potter naked next to him. He doesn’t want to think how he might react, what he might want to do. He gathers what little energy he has to roll on his side, wrapping the blanket tight in his arms, twisting to hold like it is his solace.

He feels the bed shift and dip, feels the body press against him, warmer than any charm could possibly be. Draco can’t contain a small moan and he closes his eyes, trying to shut the world away lest he give way to more of his instincts. Something presses against the nape of his neck, soft and wet and gentle, then he feels the tickle of hair as Potter lays his head there. One arm around his center, anchoring Draco firmly, ensuring that he cannot get away.

He needs to escape.

But bone-chilled cold gives way to heat, then to sleep, and the dreams he could not find earlier finally claim him.

When he wakes, Potter is sprawled on the bed and it is Draco who is wrapped around him. They are both hot, their body heat matching, their heartbeats matching. For a moment, Draco cannot breathe. He knows that if Potter opens his eyes, if he has to look at that bright green, he will be undone. His resolve will shatter and he will give in to something that can never work.

He inches from the bed slowly, lingering. Watching. He pauses at the door, half expecting that Potter will wake to watch him leave, as he always seems to, but no. His breath remains even, his eyes closed.

Disappointed, Draco eases the door open and slips through. On silent bare feet, he walks away.

 

0.

Days pass without seeing Potter.

Draco asks the elves, and is told that he has gone off to The Burrows for a time. By the time he returns, Draco is taking a day in Paris to spend with Pansy and her new beau, praising her jewelry and his choice in theater, while oddly missing the Hogwarts that has become his home.

On New Years Eve, Draco realizes that they are both there, together.

Potter glances up when Draco enters the Great Hall for a late dinner. His fork tilts in his hand, a bit of salmon going uneaten, as he waits.

When Draco approaches the head table, Potter begins to eat again. Draco joins him without a word, and together they polish off several courses of salmon, vegetables, potatoes, pumpkin soup, and a salad. At the end, Draco gestures to the house elves, and they bring out the pudding.

Treacle tart is placed in front of Potter, who gives Draco a startled look. “I didn’t ask for this,” he says.

“I know.” Draco has lemon cookies instead, and he breaks one in half before placing a bite to melt on his tongue. “However, it is your favorite, is it not? Thus it should be how you end one year and begin the next.” He smiles slightly. “They are under instructions to bring you another one before the clock finishes striking the midnight hour.”

Potter’s grin lights his face, turning his eyes to sparkling emeralds that are weapons against Draco’s armor. They pierce his heart, slicing through his thick skin easily to the tender emotions beneath. He flushes.

“Thank you,” Potter says. “Will you be joining me to watch the new year come in?”

Draco looks at his cookie, watching powdery crumbs fall to the plate before he takes another bite. “I thought I might,” he says slowly. “You are, after all, the only other company in the castle. And I find myself quite bored.”

It is a lie, of course, and Potter knows it. A hand covers his and Draco looks over to find Potter close. Too close. Close enough that if he tilts his head just so, Potter’s mouth can brush against his. The touch is light, testing and teasing.

Waiting for Draco to run.

This is the moment of truth, the moment that the armor falls away and the terrified young man is left naked and alone. Draco has never felt this scared, not even when Voldemort threatened his family. He has always held that shell tight around him, and it has always protected him. Potter leaves him with nothing.

Nothing except Potter himself.

Draco’s hand comes up slowly to touch the nape of Potter’s neck, to press his fingers against the skin between chaotic strands of hair and his collar. He holds him there as he takes the kiss deeper, answering the unasked question.

_Yes._

_I’ll stay._

Potter tastes of sweetness, and Draco licks his lips as the kiss breaks. Potter’s thumb swipes across Draco’s mouth, then lightly comes up to caress his cheek. “Scared?” he asks, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

Draco smirks. “Not any more.”


End file.
